


This Feeling

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Post-Canon, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-25 02:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12520764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: A dozen years after the wars, Trowa is still trying to find a place for himself. A glimpse into the lives of Duo Maxwell and Zechs Merquise makes him wish for things he had never before considered.





	1. Chapter 1

A/N: I am fully, painfully aware that this is not one of the fics I owe people OR an update on one of my WIPs. I do apologize. It’s been a rough few weeks and I’m frankly just relieved I have been able to write ANYTHING.

 

A/N2: Please drop me a line. Let me know if you enjoyed this. Hell, let me know if you enjoy my other things. Encouragement is literally the biggest motivation I have to write. Without it, I really do flounder.

 

A/N3: Speaking of encouragement. Eternal thanks to Ro. You are an amazing beta reader, a great friend, and always my biggest supporter. Without you, I think I would have stopped writing in 2015. Maybe 2014. Thank you for everything.

 

Warnings: angst, language, smut

Pairings: 6x2, 2x3x2, 6x3x2

 

_ This Feeling _

  
  


Trowa had had fairly good luck, over the years, with avoiding the annual  _ commemorations _ and  _ celebrations _ that were put on every year to mark the end of human warfare. 

 

Considering that his escapes had typically been missions - undercover, brutal,  _ violent _ work that put the lie to the notion that humanity had evolved past armed conflict - Trowa had been grateful to avoid the ostentatious hypocrisy.

 

He hadn’t been lucky this year, however. He had, in fact, had a string of bad luck. First, the sixteen-month-long undercover mission that had been wrecked when local L3 law enforcement had blundered into a firefight, and the resulting Earthsphere clusterfuck had meant Trowa was retrieved in a hurry and all of his intel burned. Then the motorcycle accident - or his half-assed suicide attempt, according to both Cathy and Heero. Trowa had had surprisingly minor injuries - broken ribs, a fractured femur and dislocated shoulder, as well as a nasty cut along his jaw that had required quite a few stitches but would still likely leave a scar. And then, of course, had been the string of dates that Trowa and Quatre had gone on, after Quatre had heard about the accident and dropped everything to come to Trowa’s side and- and it had been a mistake, just as they had both always known it was. Trowa was too feral, Quatre entirely too determined to domesticate him, and after just six weeks, Quatre had ended things so gently and guiltily that Trowa had almost regretted it.

 

He’d been at a low point, then, when Une had ordered Trowa to report to her office and announced his promotion to Assistant Director of Intelligence. He hadn’t put the pieces together until after she’d shoved him out with a sheaf of paperwork - the Assistant Director of Intelligence didn’t do fieldwork. Certainly didn’t do undercover work. 

 

He still hadn’t responded to the offer, despite the fact that Une had unofficially saddled him with half of the duties of the outgoing Assistant Director for the last three weeks, and he still didn’t know  _ how _ to respond to it.

 

In his efforts to avoid having to give Une an answer, he had agreed, immediately, to attend the annual Commemoration Ball in Sanc. 

 

And now, on Christmas Eve, he stood in an enormous, gilded room, holding a glass of champagne and fighting the urge to scratch at the back of his neck while he hugged a mirrored wall and watched the rich and famous flounce across the dance floor.

 

He hadn’t had to wear the Preventers dress uniform often, and he hadn’t realized just how itchy the wool of the collar was against his skin. 

 

He also hadn’t realized that his presence would be a point of interest for  _ anyone _ .

 

Well. He had anticipated a certain amount of interaction with Une, and even from Relena and Heero, who were hosting the event. He and Heero had been on less than friendly terms ever since the accident and Heero’s bedside diatribe about Trowa throwing away his life. Relena, resplendent in a silver evening gown that managed to make her look both innocent and mature, had looked between them with sad eyes, but had pinched her lips together and remained silent when all Trowa did was nod at her greeting.

 

Trowa hadn’t thought anyone else would give a damn about one more uniform stalking around the perimeter of the party, but he had been wrong. 

 

He had been wrong.

 

Maybe it was the scar that had attracted so much attention, or perhaps it was Trowa’s aloofness. Either way, more than a dozen barons, duchesses and politicians of all sorts had introduced themselves to him in the last hour. 

 

He had made more idle small talk in that time than perhaps in the entirety of his life, and when he saw yet another liveried noble look in his direction, Trowa tossed back the last of his champagne and decided to escape.

 

There was still the fireworks display, at midnight, and he knew that his absence from that would be conspicuous to Une. And Heero. So he couldn’t actually  _ leave _ the palace. But he  _ could _ slip out of the ballroom and find some other, quieter place to brood and avoid the mix of good cheer and melancholy of the other guests.

 

He had been to this palace before - once, when Heero and Relena married, and again, more recently, when there had been rumblings of an assassination attempt, and Trowa had insisted he be on the Preventers security detail for his best friend and the former Queen of the World.

 

Trowa had familiarized himself with the palace extensively, and it took almost no time at all to find the library.

 

It was a large room, two stories, with floor to ceiling windows along one wall and a balcony that allowed access to the higher shelves around three-quarters of the room. It was peaceful, and dark - amber light from the chandeliers dim, and the shadows in the room stretching long. 

 

It was also, Trowa realized as soon as he entered, occupied.

 

The room was equipped with several desks and chairs, as well as sets of leather armchairs and couches spread throughout the room.

 

And on one of the couches, closest to the window and illuminated more by the exterior palace lights and the moon than the lights within the library, were two men.

 

Trowa had heard rumors about them. Had, since the botched mission and his desk assignment in Brussels, seen enough of their interactions to have a fair number of suspicions himself.

 

But this was the first time he had seen Duo Maxwell and Zechs Merquise together.

 

Former enemies, from opposite ends of the social and political spectrum, they had amazingly little in common except for dark, bitter pasts that Trowa imagined provided as much of a foundation for a relationship as they did for eternal enmity.

 

There was no denying that they  _ looked _ good together, however.

 

Zechs was on the couch, propped against one corner, moonlight gilding his face and long, loose hair, and Duo straddled his lap, his own hair tied back and fisted in one of Zechs’s hands. Duo’s throat was arched upwards, head thrown back and long neck exposed for Zechs’s lips, tongue and teeth to tease. 

 

Zechs had eschewed the traditional livery of a Sanc prince, and was instead in the same Preventers dress uniform that both Duo and Trowa wore, but his jacket had been discarded on the floor, and his tie and shirt looked thoroughly mussed. Duo’s jacket, shirt and tie had all been removed, leaving his lean, pale torso exposed.

 

Even from across the room, Trowa could see the whorls of scars and the solar system tattoo that ran the length of Duo’s spine.

 

The pair of them, Zechs clutching Duo’s ass possessively as he caressed Duo’s throat and chest with his mouth, Duo’s hands tangled in Zechs’s hair, and soft, low sounds of pleasure escaping from his lips, were entrancing. 

 

Trowa knew he should leave. He knew that, as much as Zechs probably didn’t give a damn, Duo was intensely private, and would hate to think of  _ anyone _ seeing them like this.

 

But he couldn’t bring himself to move. 

 

Instead, he moved deeper into the room, hugging shadows and searching for a better angle at which to observe the two men. 

 

Zechs said something, words lost against Duo’s shoulder, and the other man laughed, the sound breathlessly erotic, and Trowa felt his own pulse quicken at the sound.

 

He and Duo had fucked, years ago, when they had both started working for Preventers and had been furious at the world, at themselves and each other, and hadn’t yet realized that they were good at something other than destroying everything they touched. For nearly a year, he and Duo had used each other as… not quite punishment, not quite stress relief. But the sex had been rough, exhausting in a way that had left both of them mercifully, painfully empty. 

 

Trowa had been sent on a long-term undercover assignment, and when he’d returned, he and Duo had met up for drinks, went back to Trowa’s neglected apartment, and things had been different, that last time. In Trowa’s absence, Duo had found some measure of peace for himself, and Trowa had felt cheated, abandoned and bereft in the knowledge that he had, in some incalculable way, been left behind.

 

Afterwards, he hadn’t returned Duo’s calls, or followed up on any of Duo’s casual flirtation, and after awhile, Duo had stopped trying. They had drifted apart - not just as the not-quite lovers they had been, but as friends too. Duo took a position in the Preventers legal branch, went to school and earned a slew of degrees and wore suits to work, the childhood terrorist buried behind a veneer of respectability, and only unleashed in the courtroom.

 

And Trowa… Trowa continued to drift. 

 

He wasn’t sure when Duo and Zechs had become a thing - presumably sometime after Zechs returned from his decade on Mars two years ago - but Trowa couldn’t help the sting of jealousy that warred with his arousal.

 

Zechs touched Duo as if he knew him, large hands confident and possessive, and Duo moved against him as though all he had on his mind was pleasure. 

 

This was not the Duo who had battled with Trowa in bed, who had shoved Trowa against walls and desks, or who Trowa had wrestled to the floor and whose clothes he had ripped. 

 

Trowa swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat.

 

_ This _ was a Duo who was cared for, treasured, even, judging by the look in Zechs’s hooded eyes. Not just a body to be used. 

 

Duo rose up on his knees, urged into that position by Zechs’s hands as Zechs trailed his mouth down Duo’s chest, teasing at his sensitive nipples until Duo groaned and writhed in Zechs’s arms.

 

Trowa’s arousal was starting to overpower his guilt and regret. He remembered Duo making those sounds under  _ his _ touch. Remembered working Duo to the precipice of orgasm and watching him shatter, remembered the vulnerable expression on his face in that moment of ecstasy before Duo became guarded again.

 

Zechs pushed Duo’s trousers down, revealing the pale, firm curve of Duo’s ass.

 

“You planning on fucking me right here?” Duo asked, humor tinging the rough, breathless arousal in his voice.

 

Zechs chuckled.

 

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

 

Duo snorted, and then groaned as Zechs reached down to stroke Duo’s erection.

 

“Yeah, but it’s the first time there’s been the potential for a royal audience from two dozen countries,” Duo grunted.

 

“Hm. Not the audience you want?”

 

“No. I don’t want  _ any _ audience.”

 

Whatever Zechs was doing to Duo’s cock was clearly to his liking. Duo was thrusting into his hand, ass and thighs flexing with each movement. Trowa’s own erection was painfully swollen, trapped in the confines of his trousers and underwear.

 

“Really?”

 

“Really,” Duo gasped. “You’re the exhibitionist, not me.”

 

“Mm. Can you really blame me for wanting to put you on display? You’re magnificent like this - unable to control yourself, desperate for pleasure, practically begging to be fucked.”

 

Duo made an unintelligible sound, and Trowa imagined that Zechs’s words were having a similar, if not heightened, effect on Duo as they had on Trowa.

 

He had always found Zechs attractive, in the cold, dangerous way that space was attractive. Unattainable and something Trowa hated to admit he feared. 

 

His  _ voice, _ on the other hand, had always been hot - the slight Sanc lilt to his English, the confidence and authority in his baritone - all of it deeply appealed to Trowa. Especially when he could hear Zechs’s own arousal as he described Duo’s. 

 

“Besides,” Zechs added, before leaning close to press an open-mouthed kiss to Duo’s chest. “There’s at least  _ one _ man you wouldn’t mind having watch us, isn’t there?”

 

Duo’s breath hitched, loud enough that even Trowa could hear it.

 

“Hm?” Zechs pressed when Duo didn’t respond. He continued to stroke Duo, and Duo continued to rock against him, even as he clearly struggled with a response.

 

“Ye- yes,” Duo moaned.

 

“And just what would Trowa Barton say if he saw you like this? In my lap, fucking my hand?”

 

Trowa’s brain and heart skidded to an abrupt and thundering halt.

 

_ What? _

 

“I-” Duo was at a loss for words. And Trowa himself was at a loss for  _ thoughts _ .

 

“I imagine he would  _ beg _ to join us, hm? It’s impossible to resist you like this, Duo. Would you like that? Would you like to have Trowa Barton fuck you in my arms?”

 

“Fuck, yes,” Duo moaned as he bucked against Zechs.

 

“Or would you rather I fuck  _ him _ while he fucks you?”

 

“Yeah- Yes.” The last word was drawn from Duo’s lips in one long, harsh syllable as he moved erratically and then stilled.

 

He leaned over Zechs, bowing his head and capturing the other man’s mouth in a kiss that lasted for quite some time.

 

Long enough for Trowa to finally start trying to process what he had just heard.

 

Duo fantasized about Trowa. And Zechs encouraged it. 

 

It was difficult to wrap his head around that. 

 

He watched their kiss gentle and then end as Duo sat back on Zechs’s thighs. 

 

Duo laughed, low and sensuous, and the sound sent a jolt of lust straight through Trowa’s body to his cock.

 

“Your shirt is a mess.”

 

“Good thing I have a jacket to hide most of it.”

 

Duo snorted.

 

“You’re not seriously going to wear a shirt with my cum all over it for the rest of the night.”

 

“I am. And you’re going to be thinking about it every time you look at me. And when we get home tonight…”

 

Zechs’s long fingers trailed over Duo’s ass, parting his cheeks and teasing his entrance. 

 

Duo rocked into the touch.

 

“When we get home, it will be  _ my _ turn.”

 

“Jesus, Zechs, you’re such a fucking tease. Just fuck me now.”

 

The blond-haired man laughed.

 

“No. I’d rather make you wait for it. Besides, I don’t have any lube. As much as I would love to fuck you right here on this rug.”

 

“Zechs.”

 

“Or on the writing desk, hm? Bend you over a priceless antique and fuck you hard enough to risk breaking it?”

 

Duo chuckled at that.

 

“Or perhaps here, on this couch.” Zechs repositioned them, laying Duo down on the leather surface and propping himself above the other man. “I could take my time and worship you properly.” He pressed a trail of lingering kisses across Duo’s throat and torso, working his way down to Duo’s flaccid cock.

 

Duo groaned, and then shied away when Zechs found the sensitive spot just above his groin, a spot Trowa had spent a fair amount of time teasing with his lips and teeth and tongue.

 

“Zechs, please.”

 

“No. Not yet. Although I  _ do _ encourage you to beg me for it. I might even reward you for it.”

 

Duo laughed again, and Zechs smirked down at him.

 

The look they shared was filled with lust and intimacy that went beyond physical attachment. 

 

It reminded Trowa, once again, of just what he didn’t have - what he had never had.

 

-o-

  
  


The fireworks were spectacular. 

 

Apparently, according to some muttered comments, they had been better  _ last  _ year.

 

Trowa hated them.

 

The circus had done small, cheap fireworks shows on occasion, and Trowa had always done his best to be far away during the displays.

 

It felt pathetic, but the roar of gunpowder and the flair of light was entirely too reminiscent of his childhood, when the end result of such things had been death and disaster instead of blossoms of color and light in the night sky.

 

The guests had assembled on the palace’s eastern balcony, warmed by dozens of heaters so that the snow-covered grounds that surrounded them seemed like a dream instead of the frigid reality that wrapped around them all. 

 

Trowa had, once again, positioned himself against a wall, pressing his body against the cold stone and hating every moment of his hammering heart and racing pulse.

 

Ironic. Just a few hours before, he had relished those sensations - watching Zechs and Duo together.  _ Now, _ he hated them, and himself. 

 

Relena and Heero were conspicuously at the front of the balcony, faces illuminated by the bursts of color. Heero looked tense, and the arm he had around Relena’s shoulders looked like more of an attempt to ground himself than to offer her warmth or affection. 

 

He looked around and spotted Duo and Zechs standing together, at the back of the crowd, several meters away from Trowa. 

 

They also looked tense, standing so close together they were practically leaning against each other.

 

But they weren’t actually touching, and Trowa wondered if that was an attempt to keep their relationship a secret, or merely the two men refusing to entertain the other guests by revealing their connection. 

 

Another firework exploded overhead, and Trowa flinched, caught unaware.

 

Duo looked back at him, face warm in the reflection of the red light overhead, eyes dark and unreadable. 

 

Trowa found it impossible to look away, impossible not to think about the scene he had witnessed or the words that had been spoken. 

 

Zechs noticed the shift in Duo’s attention and turned, catching sight of Trowa as well. 

 

The taller man nudged Duo, who looked away from Trowa and up at him. For a moment, they stared at each other, and then Zechs started towards Trowa. Duo followed.

 

Trowa felt a little - a  _ lot _ \- like prey trapped in the gaze of a predator as Zechs drew closer. He was taller, broader, and the smirk on his face revealed a level of self-assurance that Trowa had only ever been able to fake. 

 

“Enjoying the celebration?” Zechs asked as he positioned himself against the wall beside Trowa, close enough that their shoulders brushed, and Trowa had to fight the urge to react to the warm, solid presence beside him.

 

Duo settled himself on Zechs’s other side, the larger man’s body nearly hiding him from Trowa’s sight.

 

“I enjoyed it more last year,” Trowa said.

 

Duo snorted a derisive laugh.

 

Last year, Trowa had been embedded with a smuggling group, and the only ‘celebration’ had been a jug of spacer moonshine and some kind of chemical stimulant that had left Trowa high for nearly twelve hours afterwards. 

 

Zechs’s lips curved upwards, and he nodded in acknowledgement. Trowa doubted Zechs knew the particulars of where he had been last year - wasn’t even sure Duo knew - but they both knew, at least, that he hadn’t been  _ here _ .

 

“Une tells me you still haven’t accepted the promotion.”

 

Zechs had been appointed the Deputy Director of Preventers two years ago, when he returned from Mars. Trowa wondered what  _ he _ thought about Une’s offer. 

 

He also wondered what Duo thought. Cared what he thought, as difficult as it was to admit that to himself. He would have cared  _ before _ tonight. But after what he had witnessed… 

 

Trowa was having a hard time restraining the wild fantasies in his head of the three of them. 

 

He was sure that waking up tomorrow with a champagne hangover, alone and cold in his small apartment in Brussels, those fantasies would seem as distant and impossible as they really were. 

 

“I haven’t given it much thought,” he lied.

 

Duo snorted again, looking across Zechs at Trowa, his eyes calling him out.

 

Trowa shrugged one shoulder defensively.

 

“It’d be nice to see you around more,” Duo muttered. “Nice to know you aren’t bleeding out somewhere a million miles away.”

 

The admission had Trowa feeling incredibly self-conscious. Especially when Zechs arched an eyebrow at him, clearly looking for a reaction to Duo’s words.

 

“I don’t like wearing the uniform,” Trowa said into the awkward silence.

 

Zechs chuckled.

 

“None of us do. Wear a civilian suit, and no one will bother you about it. It’s what we do.”

 

Trowa knew. He had seen them at work, elegant and far too handsome in two and three pieced suits, starched shirts and silk ties. 

 

Duo, in particular, was unfairly attractive in a three piece suit. 

 

Trowa owned only one suit, and he said as much. 

 

“I’ll introduce you to my tailor,” Zechs shrugged. “He’ll be delighted to have yet another celebrity client.”

 

“I’m no celebrity.”

 

Zechs pursed his lips but said nothing. Duo grimaced, but the look he shot Trowa was one of sympathy.

 

_ He _ knew. He understood. In a way that Zechs, born to privilege and fueled by his own self-importance, never could. 

 

Trowa wasn’t a hero, he was just a survivor, and he was only barely doing that. 

 

_ Celebrity _ was a laughable idea. 

 

“I’m sorry about you and Quatre,” Duo said, and Trowa realized that it was the most they had spoken to each other in years. 

 

“So am I.”

 

Duo nodded. 

 

“I always thought- I dunno. I figured he was what you needed, what you really wanted?” Duo shrugged. “I wish it had worked out for you.”

 

The words tugged at Trowa, making him consider the time he had spent with Duo all those years ago. Had Duo thought that then? Had Duo assumed Trowa was simply passing the time? Had that been what Trowa was doing?

 

“Well,” Zechs said into the silence after Duo’s confession, “I think we can safely make our escape without appearing too rude. Shall we?”

 

Duo nodded eagerly.

 

“Fuck, yes. I was done with this party two hours before we got here.”

 

Zechs smirked, and gave him a look full of heat and knowledge. Duo reacted to it, licking his lips and huffing out a breath.

 

Trowa was all too aware of just what the silent communication was referencing. 

 

“Would you like a ride back to Brussels?” Zechs asked him.

 

“A ride?” Trowa repeatedly stupidly.

 

“Car service,” Duo clarified for him. “Zechs doesn’t like to ride the train with the peons, you know.”

 

Zechs rolled his eyes.

 

“I ride the train when I have to.”

 

“Mm. You mean when there are first class cars to separate the masses.”

 

They exchanged teasing glares, and Trowa once again felt a pang of jealousy. 

 

Still, when Zechs gave him a questioning look, Trowa hesitated. 

 

It wasn’t a long drive - an hour and a half to two hours, in all likelihood - but Trowa wasn’t sure if he could survive being in such close, dark quarters with the other two men for even that long. 

 

“No thanks,” he said, instantly regretting it when he saw the disappointment wash over Duo’s face.

 

Zechs nodded, as if he had expected that response. 

 

“You should come over for dinner soon. I promise we won’t pressure you  _ too _ much about accepting the promotion.”

 

Trowa stared.

 

_ Dinner _ ? At their home. He hadn’t even realized they lived together, though perhaps he should have. 

 

The rumors at HQ were  _ very _ vague, and apparently very behind. 

 

“Zechs does all of the cooking,” Duo added. “So you won’t die or anything.”

 

Trowa remembered Duo’s culinary skills - frozen meals or nearly expired ration bars that he had somehow managed to hoard. 

 

“That sounds nice,” Trowa found himself saying, and Duo rewarded him with a faint smile. 

 

“Yeah? Good.”

 

And then they were gone, leaving Trowa alone and wishing to be anything but.

 

-o-


	2. Chapter 2

 

A/N: I am fully, painfully aware that this is not one of the fics I owe people OR an update on one of my WIPs. I do apologize. It’s been a rough few weeks and I’m frankly just relieved I have been able to write ANYTHING.

 

A/N2: Please drop me a line. Let me know if you enjoyed this. Hell, let me know if you enjoy my other things. Encouragement is literally the biggest motivation I have to write. Without it, I really do flounder.

 

A/N3: Speaking of encouragement. Eternal thanks to Ro. You are an amazing beta reader, a great friend, and always my biggest supporter. Without you, I think I would have stopped writing in 2015. Maybe 2014. Thank you for everything.

 

Warnings: angst, language, smut

Pairings: 6x2, 2x3x2, 6x3x2

 

_ This Feeling _

  
  


It was the new year before Trowa saw Duo again.

 

During the two weeks since the Commemoration Ceremony, work had been light at Preventers HQ. Most agents who weren’t essential personnel took time off, and Trowa had haunted the deserted halls, gradually doing more and more of the outgoing ADI’s work, but still unwilling to accept the promotion.

 

He was also unwilling to admit to himself that he spent the next two weeks hoping to run into Duo or Zechs.

 

Neither man made an appearance, however, and Trowa cursed himself for an idiot and a fool.

 

He had fallen into a pattern, ever since Une threw him behind a desk, of getting to HQ early and making use of the training facilities to run.

 

After his accident, he had had to take several months’ break from running. It had been a relief when he was finally, reluctantly cleared by the Preventers staff physician.

 

The track and attached gym were usually empty until Trowa neared the end of his workout, but on the second day in January, Trowa arrived to his early morning run and saw that there was already someone looking around the perimeter.

 

A someone who was impossible not to recognize.

 

It wasn’t even necessarily the braid that gave him away. It was the way Duo moved - as if he was racing towards a finish line. Or running from a pursuer.

 

Duo must have noticed him, but as Trowa stretched, the other man gave no indication of being aware of him.

 

It wasn’t until Trowa started to run, setting his pace to allow Duo to catch up with him, that the other man acknowledged him.

 

Duo nodded and then grinned, lopsided and challenging, before he started to run faster and pulled away.

 

Half an hour later, they were both panting and lying on the track.

 

Duo was at least making a show of trying to stretch.

 

Trowa didn’t even bother to pretend. He was too focused on trying to catch his breath, and enjoying the burn of well-worked muscles.

 

“I forgot how fast you are,” Duo whined.

 

“I forgot how stubborn  _ you  _ are,” Trowa groaned, and Duo laughed, the sound breathless and exhausted.

 

“Fuck, I’m old,” Duo sighed, and rolled onto his side and then levered himself to his feet.

 

Trowa remained on the ground while Duo stretched.

 

He wasn’t above enjoying the sight of Duo’s ass as the other man bent over at the waist and reached for his toes.

 

Duo, glancing at Trowa from between his legs, saw the focus of Trowa’s attention and snorted in amusement.

 

Trowa smirked back at him, and for a moment, it felt like before, when they had been… whatever they had been.

 

“You still haven’t accepted your promotion,” Duo said as he straightened up. “Why?”

 

Trowa grimaced and got to his feet, following Duo’s example and trying to avoid answering the question.

 

“Why didn’t you accept any of yours?”

 

Duo gave him a look.

 

“You hacked my files.” He said it mildly, his voice neutral, and Trowa knew he was pissed.

 

It was a habit Trowa had indulged in for years, ever since he and Duo had stopped speaking. It was the best - really, the  _ only _ \- way for Trowa to know what was going on with Duo. 

 

“I wanted to know if you were okay,” he offered as his defense.

 

Duo’s eyes narrowed.

 

“You could have  _ asked _ me if I was okay.”

 

“No, I couldn’t have.”

 

Duo’s lips thinned, but he held Trowa’s gaze, and there was understanding, though no sympathy, in Duo’s eyes.

 

“You’re already doing most of the ADI work - why not just make it official and get the pay bump?”

 

Duo  _ was _ stubborn. Trowa had always hated and admired that about him. He had counted on it, years ago. 

 

“In the field, if I fuck up, I might die. If I fuck up badly enough, other people might die. But it’s still contained.”

 

Duo snorted.

 

“Zechs told me about Nairobi. Your definition of ‘contained’ encompasses three city blocks.”

 

“That couldn’t be helped,” Trowa sighed. He had played  _ that _ mission over and over in his head for the last two years. Knowing that things could have been  _ much _ worse didn’t change the fact that things had been shit. 

 

“So, what? You think that if you’re ADI, you’re going to fuck shit up even more?” Duo guessed, confidently picking apart Trowa and laying bare his anxiety.

 

Trowa didn’t bother answering, and Duo snorted and shook his head.

 

“The other guy they’re considering - Ramusen? Old Alliance guy.” Duo shrugged. “Half the pricks around here are, though. Zechs says he’s not too bad. He’s all about efficiency and resource stratification.”

 

Trowa scowled. He hadn’t worked directly with Ramusen, but their paths had crossed.  _ Resource stratification _ was the technical way of saying that he understaffed critical ops and posts in order to save money and move assets to higher profile areas. It was a trend Trowa had noticed was on the rise at Preventers over the last four years, as the organization suffered budget cuts and brutal annual reviews from the ESUN parliament. 

 

Zechs was right. Ramusen wasn’t too bad. 

 

But he was bad enough. 

 

Duo’s sharp gaze was still on him, and Trowa could feel Duo picking him apart, trying to tease out his reaction to the news. 

 

“Should Zechs be sharing that kind of information with you? Your security clearance isn’t that high.”

 

Duo snorted and shook his head.

 

“Jesus. You’re still as prickly as ever, huh? No, he probably shouldn’t have. And if you think it’s a security issue, then take the job as ADI and come after me.”

 

Duo’s gaze was hard, and Trowa could see years of resentment and hurt just below the surface. 

 

Trowa sighed.

 

“That’s IA’s problem. Not Intelligence.”

 

Duo let it go, and Trowa followed the other man as he walked towards the side of the track, to where first Duo and then Trowa had dropped their phones and bottles of water.

 

Duo drank deeply from his own, ignoring his phone and sitting down instead.

 

After a moment of hesitation, and a wary look at Duo’s still tense shoulders, Trowa sat down beside him and drank his own water.

 

“I’m sorry,” Duo sighed. “It’s your life. Your career. None of my business anymore. Maybe it never was.”

 

Trowa swallowed, and tried to think of a response to the words that weren’t bitter so much as they were regretful. 

 

“I wasn’t just waiting around for Quatre. Before. With you.”

 

Duo arched an eyebrow at him in question, but then he made the connection to his comment two weeks ago, during the fireworks display. He shrugged, and Trowa could tell that Duo didn’t really believe him.

 

“You kept me sane.”

 

“Wasn’t enough though, was it?” Duo’s lips twisted, and he looked away from Trowa. 

 

“Not for either of us,” Trowa said, thinking back to that last time together, and then thinking about Duo and Zechs, about the way Duo looked at the other man. About the way Zechs looked at Duo. “He’s a good guy.”

 

“Zechs? Yeah, he is. Most of the time.”

 

Even now, there was a note of fond amusement in Duo’s voice, and it felt like a dagger to Trowa’s heart. 

 

“You’re happier now, with him.”

 

Duo scowled.

 

“I’m happier now, yeah, but it’s not about him. It’s- Tro…” Duo sighed, and shook his head sadly. “Surviving the war was supposed to be the hard part, not all the shit that came after, yanno?”

 

Trowa knew. All too well. 

 

That didn’t change the fact that he and Duo were in dramatically different places in their lives. Duo, at some point, had come to terms with all of the shit that came after - had made some kind of peace with it and himself. And Trowa… 

 

Trowa was thirty, still using the name he had taken from a dead man, still living as though he would have to grab his duffel and take off with barely any notice, still lying awake at night and staring into the darkness while he tried to figure out who he was and just why the fuck he was alive. 

 

He felt like a failure. He felt like a man who had nothing to offer - not to Duo, not to Quatre, not to Une or the Preventers. 

 

“I came by the hospital, after your accident,” Duo confessed, and Trowa looked over at him. 

 

“You did?” 

 

Duo nodded.

 

“Yeah. I- I dunno. Heero told me what happened, and I kind of lost my shit,” Duo offered him a wry smile. “But then I got there and you were awake, and Quatre was with you, and I just…” Duo shrugged. “I thought maybe things were finally gonna work out for you the way you wanted them to.”

 

Trowa idly ran his knuckles over the scar on his jaw, a memento from the accident and from his disastrous relationship with Quatre.

 

“Heero still thinks you tried to kill yourself,” Duo added, quieter.

 

Trowa’s mouth felt dry, and his tongue heavy. 

 

Trowa swallowed, and had to clear his throat before trying to speak.

 

“I didn’t.”

 

Duo’s gaze felt like a weight on Trowa’s shoulders. Even though he wasn’t looking at him, Trowa could  _ feel _ it.

 

Trowa sighed.

 

“I don’t think I would have minded dying, though.”

 

“Fuck you,” Duo said, the words low. “I would have minded. Heero would have minded. Cathy would have minded. Quatre, Wufei.  _ Une _ would have minded.”

 

Trowa nodded.

 

“She spent an hour dressing me down for being so reckless.”

 

“She should have spent a lot fucking longer.  _ Jesus _ , Trowa.”

 

“I’m not going to kill myself, Duo,” Trowa sighed again.

 

“No, you’re just not going to be all that quick about moving out of the path of any bullets headed your way. That’s real comforting,” Duo snarled.

 

Trowa glared at him.

 

“Don’t act like you’ve spent the last eight years worried I-”

 

“ _ Don’t _ ,” Duo interrupted him. “Don’t  _ even _ tell me how you think I’ve spent the last eight years. Whatever intel you  _ hacked _ on me is- You know what, fuck you. I’m not doing this.”

 

Duo pushed himself to his feet and glared down at Trowa.

 

“Running away?” Trowa sneered.

 

Duo glared down at him, and for a moment, Trowa thought he was about to lash out.

 

But then Duo drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

 

“I care about you, you stupid bastard. What we had- I was a mess, and you were a mess, and I thought we were figuring shit out until you just cut me out of your life. I-”

 

“You stopped being a mess, Duo. I came back, and you… you stopped being a mess.” Trowa winced at how pathetic he sounded, how bitter.

 

The look in Duo’s eyes made Trowa feel raw, exposed and vulnerable, and he resisted the urge to curl into himself.

 

“Do you want me to apologize?” It sounded like a sincere offer, and that made Trowa feel even worse.

 

“ _ No _ .”

 

“I want you to be happy, Trowa.”

 

Duo dropped down into a crouch in front of Trowa, and he reached out, a little hesitantly.

 

Trowa held himself still, and Duo ran his thumb over the scar on Trowa’s jaw. A few inches lower and he  _ would _ have died.

 

The look in Duo’s eyes made it clear he was thinking exactly that.

 

“I want you to fucking mind if you die.”

 

Trowa forced himself not to lean into Duo’s touch, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

 

Duo’s thumb circled over Trowa’s cheek, and Trowa shivered. At the touch, at the look in Duo’s eyes.

 

For a moment, Trowa was sure something was about to happen, could  _ feel _ Duo’s eyes on his mouth, and his heartbeat accelerated.

 

But then Duo stood up.

 

“I need to go. The Chief Counsel wants to chew me out for interfering with his last case.”

 

Duo smoothed his hands over his thighs and nervously licked his lips.

 

“Take care of yourself, Tro, okay?”

 

Trowa could only nod and watch Duo collect his phone and walk away.

 

-o-

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

  
  


A/N: I am fully, painfully aware that this is not one of the fics I owe people OR an update on one of my WIPs. I do apologize. It’s been a rough few weeks and I’m frankly just relieved I have been able to write ANYTHING.

 

A/N2: Please drop me a line. Let me know if you enjoyed this. Hell, let me know if you enjoy my other things. Encouragement is literally the biggest motivation I have to write. Without it, I really do flounder.

 

A/N3: Speaking of encouragement. Eternal thanks to Ro. You are an amazing beta reader, a great friend, and always my biggest supporter. Without you, I think I would have stopped writing in 2015. Maybe 2014. Thank you for everything.

 

A/N4: I’m following the FBI department structure KIND OF. So, as Assistant Director of Intelligence, Trowa IS the head of Intelligence. There is only one Director - Une.

 

Warnings: angst, language, smut

Pairings: 6x2, 2x3x2, 6x3x2

 

_ This Feeling _

 

Trowa had been the Assistant Director of Intelligence for all of seven hours when everything went to shit.

 

On Tuesday night, Trowa left work feeling shell-shocked and confident he was in way over his head.

 

It was one thing to complete half of the old ADI’s work - prioritizing intel, approving ops, summarizing and tweaking existing strategies. It was entirely another to be the one in  _ charge _ . 

 

His new office needed to have a revolving door installed. He had no secretary - the old one had left with the old ADI, confirming a juicy bit of Preventers office gossip once and for all - and so, for the entire day, agents had dropped in with no notice, no filter, and no appointments.

 

Trowa had felt like he was back in the circus - juggling paperwork and petty grievances and minor crises. He also felt like knives were being thrown at him - at thirty, he was the youngest ever Assistant Director of Intelligence, and, in fact, the youngest department head by several years. Zechs, as Deputy Director, and Une, as Director, were the closest in age to Trowa. But they, at least, had years of conspicuous military and public service to lend them authority.

 

Most of the agents in the Intel department had never even  _ heard _ of Trowa before he had been assigned a desk following his last op and during his recovery after the accident. And now he was in charge of them.

 

By the time he packed up his briefcase - shoving as many report folders into it as he could - Trowa was seriously doubting whether or not he could even  _ do _ this job. 

 

It involved far more than just looking at the details and teasing out just how to utilize operatives. It involved  _ politics _ \- office politics, government politics. Things that Trowa had never given much thought to, outside of the very shallow ways in which he needed to manipulate people when he was undercover. 

 

He shrugged on the suit coat he had abandoned on the back of his office chair hours ago, and grimaced at the feel of it. Over the weekend, he had gone shopping, never a favorite pastime, and purchased several suits, ties, dress shoes and button-up shirts. 

 

They had been from a department store, cheap and dull and  _ serviceable _ . 

 

Trowa hated all of them.

 

He locked his office behind him, feeling a modicum of relief at being able to do that, and started down the hall towards the elevators.

 

“Mr. Barton!”

 

He tensed at his name, at the almost frantic tone of voice that called out.

 

Reluctantly, he turned around and saw a bespectacled man waving at him.

 

“Sir, I’m sorry. We have a situation.”

 

Trowa scowled. 

 

Of course. 

 

“What kind of situation?” The man looked vaguely familiar, but it had been a  _ very _ long day. It took Trowa far too long to remember who he was.

 

James Anderson. The Deputy Chief of Staff.

 

He had been the one to greet Trowa that morning, to explain that the Chief of Staff had quit, that the ADI’s secretary had quit, that the department was in a bit of chaos. He had shown Trowa to his office, and then vanished.

 

Anderson finally reached him, breathing a bit heavily.

 

“There’s been an incident in Khartoum.”

 

Trowa had had the security clearance for weeks now to be able to monitor active operations and utilize the Intelligence and Field Ops databases. He wracked his brain for what could be going on in Khartoum.

 

“The mining facility or the embassy?” he asked.

 

Anderson blinked, looking impressed, and then he looked sheepish.

 

“Both, actually.”

 

“ _ Both _ ,” Trowa repeated.

 

Anderson nodded, and then gestured down the hall.

 

“We have live feeds set up in the situation room? I can explain more.”

 

“Start now,” Trowa ordered. There was no way he was walking into that room without more information.

 

He let Anderson steer him in the direction of the sit room, keeping his pace firmly sedate, and Anderson reluctantly matched him.

 

“Field Ops staged the raid on the mining facility. The one that ADI Leitao approved.”

 

Trowa had approved it, technically. Had outlined the critical intel, had reworked the initial plan as it had been presented by the Counterterrorism Unit, and Leitao had merely stamped it.

 

“And?”

 

“And it went fine. They secured the weapons and had minimal casualties, but-” Anderson paused as they passed by a row of occupied cubicles.

 

Trowa stared down any agent bold enough to look up from their work.

 

“How minimal?” he asked. There was a certain culture in Preventers, a culture that he believed was nurtured by all of the ex-Alliance and ex-OZ agents, of shrugging off body counts. Of considering the lives of agents as just one more resource to shuffle from column A to column B.

 

Anderson flushed at Trowa’s tone.

 

“Two of the arms dealers were killed, three injured. We lost one agent, and another was wounded. She’s been medevaced to Cairo.”

 

“I want updates on her situation as soon as you have them.”

 

Anderson looked confused.

 

“She’s not an Intelligence operative, sir. She’s with Counterrorism. Our guys cleared the area before the op went down.”

 

“I want updates,” Trowa repeated. 

 

Anderson nodded.

 

“Okay. Of course, sir.”

 

“Explain to me how this is a situation - and what it has to do with the Embassy.”

 

“We already identified security breaches in the Embassy last month, and ADI Leitao passed on that information to the ESUN government.”

 

Again, it had been Trowa who sent the communiques, but, again, he didn’t bother to correct Anderson.

 

“But the government didn’t secure the leaks.”

 

Trowa felt like swearing, but instead, he kept his face neutral and remained silent.

 

They had arrived at the situation room, and Anderson entered in his keycode.

 

“ _ And _ ?” Trowa prompted as the door lock turned green and he heard the lock disengage.

 

Anderson opened the door, and then licked his lips and let out a shuddering breath.

 

“And the ESUN Ambassador was executed by Sudanese separatists fifteen minutes ago. Counterterrorism sent their team from the mining raid to the Embassy and…”

 

It was clear Anderson wanted to be anywhere in the world other than under the weight of Trowa’s glare.

 

“And  _ what _ ?” 

 

“And the separatists now have control of the weapons dealers, their weapons, and the Embassy. The Counterterrorism team had to bug out, and we’re trying to re-establish contact.”

 

Trowa just stared.

 

There was no possible way Anderson had just said those words.

 

“What do you  _ mean _ the separatists now have control of the weapons dealers  _ and _ the weapons?”

Anderson’s eyes darted towards the sit room, and Trowa saw the glare of digital monitors fixed to the perimeter of the wall, saw the forms of a dozen men and women working in the room. He didn’t budge.

 

“The CT team didn’t have time to secure the cargo or the prisoners. The situation at the Embassy escalated so quickly that they felt it more prudent to engage first.”

 

Trowa did swear now.

 

The weapons that the CT team had been sent to secure were pre-colonial nuclear devices. Bombs that could be set off  _ anywhere _ and cause massive devastation. Finding them in the first place had been a coup, and the Intel team that had tracked the weapons was one of the best. 

 

The CT team, on the other hand, sounded like one of the worst.

 

Trowa finally stepped into the situation room.

 

It was absolute chaos, despite the fact that Trowa recognized two other assistant directors - Sokolov, AD of Counterterrorism and Park, AD of Terran Operations.

 

Everyone looked up at his entrance, and Trowa felt sick at the relief on their faces.

 

“Sir.”

 

It was Wendy Yang, an Intel officer that Trowa had worked with several times. She had been his handler on two missions, and had debriefed him on another four. He trusted her. And she looked pale and tense.

 

“Agent Yang.”

 

“We’ve tracked the weapons dealers to a safehouse here.” She gestured to one of the digital displays that showed an aerial view of a rundown neighborhood in Khartoum.

 

“The weapons?”

 

She shook her head.

 

“The separatists and the weapons dealers fought over the cargo. The CT team estimates that the separatists probably secured all of the weapons.”

 

“ _ Probably _ ,” Trowa echoed. Yang paled, and Trowa turned away from her to glare at Sokolov.

 

He wanted to ask the portly former Alliance Intelligence officer just what the  _ fuck _ had happened, and what he planned to do about it. 

 

Trowa just barely restrained himself.

 

“Our agents are working to secure the area around the Embassy. They believe the rest of the staff are being held hostage and-”

 

“There are four nuclear  _ bombs _ somewhere in Khartoum,” Park interrupted him. “Seven secretaries and a few guards are the  _ least _ of our concerns.”

 

Yang shot Trowa a look.  _ She _ knew all too well how he might react to such a blatant disregard of life. 

 

Then again, Trowa had to admit that Park had a point. 

 

“Where’s the nearest Critical Response Team?” Trowa asked Park.

 

She glowered at him.

 

“I scrambled them out of Paris twenty minutes ago.”

 

Trowa stared at her.

 

“It’s going to take them at least seven hours to get there,” he stated the painfully obvious fact. “What about the team in Nairobi?”

 

Park loomed up at him, chin tilted upwards and eyes guarded.

 

“They’re already on an op, Agent Barton. You  _ were _ let in on that, weren’t you?”

 

Trowa held her gaze for one long, silent moment. The tension in the room was nearly palpable.

 

“While I wouldn’t normally question your department’s priorities, _Assistant_ _Director_ Park,” he stressed her title, the same one that she should have used when addressing him, “I would think potential nuclear devastation trumps the extraction of Alliance bouillon in Somalia.”

 

Sokolov made the mistake of standing beside Park and coming to her defense.

 

“Assistant Director Park and I conferred and agreed that the CT team can resolve this-”

 

“The CT team can’t resolve  _ anything _ ,” Trowa savagely interrupted. The way Park and Sokolov backed each other up on this - the knowledge that they were gambling with  _ thousands _ of lives for the potential PR win of securing billions of dollars in Alliance bouillon  _ and _ saving Khartoum from nuclear devastation - it was a gamble. It was a  _ stupid _ gamble. 

 

And Trowa abruptly realized that neither of them had requested his presence in the sit room. Yang was looking to Trowa’s left, at Anderson, and they were sharing a look that was somewhere between full-on panic and rage.

 

Yang had sent Anderson to get him.

 

Which made Trowa wonder, what was  _ Yang _ doing here? It was clear that Park and Sokolov didn’t want Intel anywhere near this. So then why…

 

“Where is our Khartoum team?” he asked her, realizing abruptly, belatedly, why she was still there.

 

“We pulled them from the mining facility two hours before the CT op,” she said, and gestured to another digital screen, this one showing the civilian airport in Khartoum. “They’re in lockdown at the airport.”

 

Trowa thanked a god he didn’t believe in that their flight hadn’t left before this clusterfuck erupted.

 

“Get them out of there, and get them back on the ground. Brief them on the situation. Their priority is securing those weapons. How much of our network was burned by the CT op?”

 

Sokolov made a disgruntled noise and opened his mouth, ready to argue, but Trowa held up his hand.

 

The gesture shocked him into momentary, furious silence.

 

Yang looked between them, her eyes wide, but answered Trowa’s question.

 

“Not much. Our team was really well-insulated. Obviously, our connection in the dealer group isn’t good anymore, but otherwise, our Khartoum network is still in place. Ravi was the lead on this.”

 

Trowa nodded.

  
  


Ravi, or Hussein Ravinolli, was an L2 colonial who had been a thorn in the Alliance’s side before and during the wars. He was only a few years older than Trowa, and he was one of the most competent Intel agents Trowa had ever encountered.

 

“Good,” Trowa sighed. “Good. Get him up to speed.”

 

Yang nodded and moved away, picking up a phone and a datapad.

 

“You  _ cannot _ just barge in here and act like you have the authority to countermand our orders, Barton!” Sokolov finally sputtered.

 

Trowa arched an eyebrow at him.

 

“I haven’t countermanded anything. Have your CT team take out the dealers. Have  _ your _ CRT team get the bouillon cache. And when the Paris CRT team is on the ground,  _ my _ team can assist in tracking down these weapons. Or would you rather I twiddle my thumbs and let you two blow up all of Central Africa?”

 

Before either Park or Sokolov could respond, the door to the sit room opened.

 

Trowa didn’t bother turning around. He had no interest in whoever had decided to join the legion of useless agents in the room.

 

“Well?” Trowa asked, drawing Sokolov and Park’s attention away from whoever had entered and back to him. “Should I call off my team and go home for the night? Or do you want me to call Director Une?”

 

Someone cleared their throat, and Trowa finally turned around.

 

And saw Zechs Merquise standing two feet behind him.

 

The taller man arched one eyebrow at Trowa.

 

“Assistant Director Barton, I’m afraid Director Une is otherwise occupied. But perhaps you could explain the situation to  _ me _ ?”

 

Trowa shoved down his immediate reaction of  _ what the fuck have I done? _ and laid out, in succinct, bitter detail, what was going on.

 

After he finished, Zechs held his gaze, studying him, seeing the barely banked fury in his eyes.

 

“Do either of you have anything to add?” Zechs asked Park and Sokolov. “Or has Assistant Director Barton summarized the situation accurately?”

 

Neither spoke, and Zechs couldn’t quite restrain the sneer on his face.

 

“Assistant Director Barton, you’re in charge of this recovery mission. I want progress updates when you have them, and I want this resolved as efficiently as possible.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Trowa responded immediately.

 

Zechs swept a cold glare over everyone in the room, and then left.

 

-o-

  
  


Sixteen hours later, it was all over.

 

Trowa was shown into Zechs’s office by a trim, brunette secretary who took in his rumpled appearance and bloodshot eyes with a sympathetic look. 

 

Zechs, who hadn’t spent the night in the sit room pounding coffee and sugary pastries, looked fresh and crisp. He had gone home, had showered and changed into another immaculate suit, and looked like everything Trowa wasn’t.

 

Confident, collected, and as though he  _ belonged _ .

 

Zechs gestured for Trowa to sit, and he very nearly collapsed into the chair across from the Deputy Director’s desk.

 

Trowa saw his lips twitch at that, but Zechs didn’t comment.

 

“We’ve secured the last of the weapons,” he said without preamble.

 

Zechs nodded.

 

“Good. What kind of repercussions are we looking at?”

 

Ravi’s team had recovered two of the bombs almost immediately, through a series of bizarre coincidences, and had acquired info on the third bomb and been able to track it to a probable location within six hours. The Paris CRT had secured that bomb, had taken possession of the other two, and then sat on them while the CT team at the Embassy finally regained control of the facility and the separatist leaders. 

 

It had taken another few hours for Ravi to locate the fourth bomb, and by then it was en route to Saudi Arabia. Trowa had broken a few dozen treaties moving a team into place to intercept it, and now that it too was in the hands of a CRT team and Trowa’s agents were finally on their way home, he could allow himself to breathe.

 

“You might need to apologize to the Saudi Ambassador,” Trowa said.

 

“Apologize?”

 

Trowa shrugged.

 

“I had to circumvent some of the Red Sea Treaties. Most of them,” he amended, and then scrubbed at his face. “I’ll have all of the details in my report.”

 

Zechs leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers.

 

“Speaking of reports, Sokolov and Park have already sent over quite a few.”

 

Trowa was too tired to keep himself from sneering.

 

The other two ADs had left not long after Zechs gave Trowa official control of the op. They had both sent subordinates to the sit room to monitor the situation and, Trowa was positive, interfere. Despite them, he had been successful.

 

“Sokolov recommends we fire you. Park thinks we should investigate you.”

 

Trowa rolled his eyes. It was almost comical - they were both leveling the charges at  _ him _ that they expected Trowa to recommend against  _ them _ . Trying to preempt him.

 

“How the hell did either of them get promoted to AD?” Trowa asked wearily.

 

Zechs smirked.

 

“Politics. Politics, and people turning down promotions.”

 

Trowa arched an eyebrow at that.

 

“Noin didn’t want Park’s job. She decided to stay on Mars.”

 

“She wouldn’t have fucked this up so royally,” Trowa muttered.

 

Zechs barked out a laugh.

 

“No, she wouldn’t have. Park was promoted to head of Terran Operations three months ago, after the last AD was forced to retire following some revelations about his war activities.”

 

Of course.

 

“And Sokolov?”

 

“He’s close to the Russian Premier. His appointment to CT was entirely political. Why do you think Une wanted you as ADI so badly she let you dither about it for more than a month?”

 

Trowa hadn’t actually considered that Une  _ needed _ him in that way.

 

He wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that.

 

“Go home. Shower. Sleep. Shave. I want a report on my desk tomorrow.”

 

“I might as well stay and do it now,” Trowa sighed. “It’s already-”

 

“No,” Zechs interrupted, tone arctic, and Trowa was reminded that this was a man who had been commanding elite soldiers since he was a teenager. “Go home. I can’t have my ADIs wandering around looking like they’ve been on a three-day bender. You have a phone. You have staff. Get some rest.”

 

Trowa sighed and rose to his feet.

 

Zechs stood as well, and he walked around his desk and held out his hand.

 

Trowa stared at it dumbly.

 

“You did good work, Trowa,” Zechs said, letting his hand fall back to his side.

 

Trowa realized belatedly that he had been meant to shake Zechs’s hand.

 

“Not according to Park and Sokolov,” he snarked.

 

“No, and you’re going to need to work on how to be a team player. The Intelligence Department doesn’t exist in a vacuum, and the best way to look out for your people is making sure the other branches don’t have a vendetta against you or them.”

 

The look Zechs gave him was hard, and Trowa was forced to concede the point with a nod.

 

“I know,” he sighed. “I hadn’t really anticipated  _ this _ part of the job.”

 

Zechs’s expression turned sympathetic.

 

“I don’t think any of us did,” he said with a slight, rueful twist of his lips. He paused for a moment. “Come over for dinner tomorrow night.”

 

“What?” Trowa felt like a bit of an idiot, having to question that. He was  _ just _ tired enough that he wondered if he was already asleep.

 

“Dinner at my home. Duo’s on assignment in New York for the next few weeks, and I despise cooking for just myself. Come over.”

 

It was somewhere between a request and an order, and Trowa had the entirely inappropriate question of whether or not Zechs ever  _ begged _ .

 

He wondered if Duo managed to make Zechs beg, or if it was also Zechs making Duo ask for it, like he had that night in the library in Sanc.

 

Trowa felt his face flush as Zechs continued to look at him.

 

He needed to escape. He needed to sleep.

 

He needed to stop thinking about the two of them together, and especially to stop fantasizing about the three of them.

 

“Alright,” he said, and Zechs nodded.

 

“My secretary will send you the address. Now go home. And do  _ not _ come back before tomorrow morning. Or I’ll follow up on Sokolov’s suggestion and put you on administrative leave.”

 

-o-

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
